


Sheep go to Heaven

by intravenusann



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Bottom Original Percival Graves, Christian Themes, Coffee Shops, Cupid & Psyche vibe, Demon Sex, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Oral Sex, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, Visions in dreams, mention of domestic abuse, priests but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-02 10:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14543121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: Everyone knows the Barebone church is haunted. Deacon Graves chooses to live there anyway. But is the thing that visits him at night a ghost, a dream — or is Credence something else?





	1. The Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with domestic abuse and the aftermath of violent trauma. Mentions of suicide by relatives of minor original characters.
> 
> Inspired, but wildly diverging from, a prompt by [writingramblr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr): "New!Incubus Credence meets Priest!Graves/ could be angsty or not serious. mild smut possible, via bad seduction."

“It’s haunted,” Seraphina tells him. “Did you know that real estate agents have to tell you that kind of thing? But I looked it up, apparently it’s all very real.”

She’s on the phone half the time on the way to the church. 

“I’ll find you some contractors if you insist on doing this,” she says. 

“I do,” he says. 

In her parked car, she looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“I don’t understand you anymore, Percy,” she says.

It stings, a little. There’s no one alive who has known Percival Graves longer than Seraphina Picquery.

And still, he thinks, how long was it before she noticed he was missing?

An uncharitable thought, he recognizes. The kind of thought he had hoped to make peace with out at Dunwoodie. Instead, here he is.

“Alright, Deacon Graves,” she says. “Here’s your murder church.”

“Murder?” he says, opening the passenger side door. “You didn’t say anything about murder.”

“How do you think places get haunted, Percy?” she says.

The contractors arrive at Seraphina’s command. Percival’s not young anymore, but he’s only a little older than the man who runs the company Seraphina selected. He’s got two hands. He knows how to work. They clear out rotten wood and mildewed insulation. The wiring has to be complete stripped out. The plumbing has rusted full of holes.

Percival sleeps on an air mattress on the lower floor and uses the portable toilet that the contractors set up in the back. 

“I can remember when you had standards,” Seraphina tells him.

An electrician falls down the stairs and breaks his arm. He swears someone grabbed him.

The plumber quits, telling all of them about black smoke pouring from the pipes.

The man and his two sons who lay the new floor leave the day after they finish and never say a word about why. The contractor jokes with Percival afterwards that the man kept talking about his father and “some chick named Maria.”

“I’m gonna have to pull out of this job, though,” he says. “I hate to do it, but I don’t have anyone willing to come to the site.”

For a few weeks, Percival sleeps alone in the half-finished church. He works on the paperwork for 501(c)(3) status at a nearby coffee shop and tries not to abuse their wifi terribly.

One of the baristas comes up and sits at his table on a Thursday morning.

“Hey,” she says, leaning her elbow on the table. “So, are you, like, living at that church?”

“Yes,” he says.

She tilts her head and her blonde curls fall against her cheek.

“Why?” she asks. “Cause my sister, she says… I mean, I don’t know if you believe in these things, but…”

“It’s haunted,” Percival says.

“Like, _super_ haunted,” she says. 

Then she breaks into a grin.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Not yet,” Percival says. “It hasn’t bothered me at all.”

“Huh,” she says.

She thrusts her hand across the table at him. “I’m Queenie, by the way.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Queenie,” he says.

They shake hands and he notes the softness of her touch. He knows she’s sizing him up and his old training causes him to do the same. She has a ring on her left hand with a medium-sized stone, but no second ring. She is pleasant to everyone, but only jokes with regulars. Percival has not noticed her introducing herself to any other customers. 

She knew where he’s been living.

The next day, Percival invites Seraphina for coffee.

“You know how busy I am,” she says. 

She arrives at the door of an independently-owned coffee shop off Carmine Street wearing a Gucci dress with a ridiculous bow on the front and a pair of nude heels that only accentuate the fact that her skin is darker than what passes for “nude” in fashion. Her hair this week is short and almost white blonde.

In comparison, Percival wears a button-up shirt and slacks — both black. 

“Look a little less like a priest, won’t you?” Seraphina says.

“I’m sorry, but I have higher priorities these days than fashion,” he says, with a smile.

She rolls her eyes. At the counter, Percival hears her order, “As much espresso as you can fit in your largest cup. Yes, for here.”

Queenie’s blonde head appears from the back and she comes out into the cafe with a tall brunette trailing after her.

“Mr. Percival,” she says. “I wanted you to meet my sister, Tina.”

The brunette stands easily half a foot taller than Queenie and wears no makeup. Her clothes are all a size too large, but the cuffs of her shirt fall short of her wrists. Percival would not have guessed them to be sisters, which feels like a personal failing.

“Uhm, hi,” Tina says. “Good to meet you. Queenie says you’ve bought the Barebone church?”

“He’s living in it,” Queenie says.

“Excuse me,” Seraphina says, clutching a huge mug of espresso in both hands. Her little handbag dangles from her elbow.

“Who are you?”

“Tina Goldstein,” Tina says. She stands up straighter and lifts her chin. 

“Ma’am,” she says.

“And I’m Queenie Goldstein,” Queenie says. “I own the café and that is _quite_ a lot of espresso, there, miss, you’re gonna be doing a lot of running to the bathroom in those heels.” 

Seraphina somehow looks down at both of them, though they’re both taller than her even with the Louboutins.

“I’m a social worker,” Tina says, “and I… I suppose an amateur historian. I’ve done a lot of research on the Barebone church.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Seraphina says. 

“It’s alright, Sera,” Percival says.

“Good to meet you, Tina,” he says. He stands up and offers to shake her hand.

“I’m Percival.”

She hesitates for a moment, wiping her palm against her pants. Then she shakes his hand and squeezes his fingers with what might be all her strength. Her mouth stays in a firm line the whole time he looks her in the eyes.

“If you’re trying to hit on him,” Seraphina says. “You should know that he’s becoming a priest.”

That is not completely accurate, but Percival doesn’t argue with it.

Tina jerks her hand back.

“I’m married,” she says.

Percival looks at her left hand and doesn’t see a ring.

“And I’m engaged,” Queenie says, happily lifting her hand so that Seraphina can make a face that says she finds the ring to be mediocre.

“Good for you,” Seraphina says.

“This is my friend,” Percival says, “and the woman who bought the church, Seraphina.”

“Picquery,” she says, not offering her hand. “Seraphina Picquery.”

Tina’s eyes grow wide.

“You’re the president of MACUSA,” she says. “Like, _the_ MACUSA.” 

“Yes,” Seraphina says. 

“Holy shit,” Tina says. Then she covers her mouth.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… That was a huge case,” she says. “I was... I mean, it was all over the papers. The FBI was involved.”

“They were,” Seraphina says. 

“Now, if you don’t mind,” she adds, “I’d like to drink my coffee.”

“Queenie,” Tina says. “I think this can wait. It’s a pretty boring story anyway.”

“No, it’s not,” Queenie says. “There’s a ghost of a murdered boy in that church. You’ve talked to him!”

“Yeah, and it was just sad,” Tina says, as she pulls her sister away.

Seraphina makes a face at him before she sits down at his table.

“Well,” she says. “I think they’re both nuts, but probably not affiliated with him.”

Percival nods.

“That is what you were thinking,” she says. “Wasn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer.

Seraphina drinks an obscene amount of espresso and tells him all about what’s going on at MACUSA.

“I miss you,” she says.

“You know I can’t,” he tells her.

“I know,” she says, looking into her huge and empty mug.

“God,” she says, lifting her hand.

Her Audemars Piguet slips down her slender wrist. “That bitch just had to bring it up. I just want to go one fucking day without thinking about that.”

“Me too,” he says.

He swallows, then reaches out to take Seraphina’s uplifted hand. He pulls it down to the table and holds it.

“Me too,” he repeats.

After she goes, Percival looks over his shoulder for the Goldsteins. Queenie takes an order from a customer, but he sees Tina sitting in a chair beside one of the cafe’s bookshops. He gets up and leaves his coffee cup behind on the table.

“Miss Goldstein,” he says, and she nearly jumps out of her seat.

The book in her hands snaps shut — something about cryptids of the mid-atlantic?

“I’d like to hear about the church,” Percival says.

“Really?” Tina says. “I mean, of course, I brought, uh, not the original documents but copies.”

She shows him census records from 1920. She shows him black and white photographs. She shows him photos of a microfiche screen.

“It’s hardly a church at all,” she says. “It served as a house mostly and then, possibly, an orphanage. But it wasn’t all — I mean, it was totally illegal. But no one really enforced all the building codes or anything. Then some groups stepped in to make it a real church.”

The church has changed hands nearly a hundred times in nearly as many years. Now, it belongs to Seraphina Picquery.

“Have you experienced anything… strange?” Tina asks.

Percival tells her about the contractor’s employees — the broken-armed electrician, the frightened plumber, the prayerful father and sons.

“Okay,” Tina says. “But what about you? I mean you’re living there.”

“No,” he says. “I haven’t experienced anything at all.”

He wonders why.

Tina lets him keep some of the copies and she sends photos to his phone of the church through the ages. He looks at the census records for the Barebones and runs his thumb over the nearly illegible print — a photocopy of a photocopy of a handwritten document — which Tina says reads “Credence Barebone.”

He walks back to the church with so many of Tina’s words ringing in his head like a chorus of bells.

There is no bell in the Barebone church, but there are two upper floors. Percival climbs to the highest point he can safely reach on the stairs and looks down.

The woman who built this church died in it.

She and her daughter and her son. Tina informed him that no one really knows what happened, only that three bodies were found. A fourth name is listed on the 1920 census.

“Who knows what became of Modesty Barebone,” Tina had said.

Maybe she lived? Maybe she's alive today.

Percival doubts it.

He works on his finances and tries to spend the afternoon painting.

“Credence,” he says, when he's halfway finished priming the downstairs walls, “I met a friend of yours today. Her name is Tina. She says she's been here before and that you spoke to her.”

He looks around the open space of the church, up into the rafters.

“Would you speak to me?”

Nothing answers. No smoke pours from the primed walls. No hands grab him. There's only silence and the sounds of traffic filtered through old, wooden walls.

He finishes priming and then washes up. He gets dinner — cheap, greasy pizza — and eats cross-legged on the floor. Before bed, he means to read another chapter in the used paperback he picked up at the cafe, but he finds himself looking at old photos of the church on his phone until his eyes hurt.

The air mattress lilts strangely when he leans over to turn off the lamp on the floor. He plugs his phone in and tries to get comfortable.

Percival wakes suddenly. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he knows that it’s still dark out. He also knows he’s not alone. The air mattress tilts to the left with the weight of someone else. He can hear breathing.

“You know my name,” a voice says.

Percival doesn’t recognize the voice. Relief hits him like a punch in the chest. He sighs. He opens his eyes to the darkness.

“Credence?” he asks, sitting up.

“Why do you know my name?” the voice asks. It sounds far more human than Percival expected.

“Tina told me about you,” Percival says. “That you… died here.”

“I didn’t die,” Credence says.

Percival is willing to believe in miracles and God, but this does not feel particularly miraculous.

“I sold myself to the devil and became his whore,” Credence says.

“Oh,” Percival says. 

He sits up on the air mattress in the dark. The shapes of the rafters are starting to become clear above him. 

“Don’t look,” Credence says. He sounds truly panicked. 

“Please.”

The weight of him disappears off the air mattress. He could be anywhere in the dark.

“I won’t,” Percival says. “Would you like me to close my eyes?”

There is a chance that Credence is not a ghost from the last century or… the devil’s whore. The most likely thing, Percival reasons, is that he is a very unwell young man.

“Yes,” Credence says. “Please do that.”

“Alright,” Percival says.

“Credence,” he says, “may I ask you a question?”

The weight settles back onto the air mattress. “Yes.”

“Why are you here?” Percival asks.

“To corrupt the souls of men and stitch my wickedness into their hearts,” Credence answers. 

Cold fingers brush the back of his neck and Percival cannot help himself, he flinches.

“Why are you here?”

Perhaps he means it more philosophically, but Percival says, “My friend Seraphina bought this church for me, because I want to start a shelter for — for men who are victims of domestic violence.”

He pauses and listens to Credence’s breathing.

“Do you know what that means?” Percival asks.

“No,” he says. “But it must be something good.”

“Why do you say that?” Percival asks. 

“Because you are a good man,” Credence says. “You have a clean soul.”

Percival’s stomach twists and he has to swallow back bile. Credence’s cold fingers still touch his neck. Percival feels himself breathing too quickly through his nostrils. 

He reaches back quickly and grabs Credence’s wrist. There’s a whimper and Credence tries to pull back. It wrenches Percival’s shoulder slightly to keep hold of him, but he manages.

His eyes are open, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Please,” Credence says. “Don’t hurt me. I’m sorry.”

Percival’s hand tightens. 

“Who are you working for?” he asks.

“I told you,” Credence says, his voice hitting a whining pitch. “I’m the devil’s whore.”

Percival can hear the unsteadiness of Credence’s breathing, as though he’s struggling not to cry out — or cry.

“Please,” Credence says. “I wasn’t going to do anything. I know what someone like you could do to me.”

“What do you think I’m going to do to you?” Percival asks.

“You’re going to destroy me,” Credence says. “The good always vanquishes that which is evil.”

Percival feels his grip loosen. The words are so… so similar that his stomach aches. He can hear that bastard’s voice overlaying Credence’s. But there is a clear difference: Credence sees himself as the evil.

Percival lets him go.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says. “I won’t touch you again. I knew I couldn’t possibly seduce someone like you.”

Credence’s weight disappears from the air mattress. Percival cannot hear him breathing. He hears soft footsteps against the wood.

“Thank you for sparing my wretched existence,” Credence says.

Percival winces. It is not that bastard’s voice he hears, then, but his own.

“Wait,” he says. “Credence.”

There is no answer.

“Credence,” he calls into the dark.

When he finally leans forward and turns on the lamp on the floor, he picks it up and uses it to cast light into all the dark corners of the empty church. There is no one at all here but Percival.

“I didn’t introduce myself,” he says. “My name is Percival Graves.”

Percival sees a therapist once a week. He goes to Mass on Sundays and holy days of obligation. He tells Seraphina nearly every stupid thought, dream, and desire that he has. But he tells no one about Credence, or whoever it was upon whom he laid his hand in the dark that night.

However, he does consult Credence about the changes he is making to the church.

“I don’t like the ultra white, it actually looks rather gray on the walls,” he says. “But I cannot decide between —”

He looks at the paint chips in his hands.

“Moon Beam and Cool Mist.”

He paints a swatch of both on the walls.

“What do you think, Credence?”

He goes out for a cup of coffee and comes back to find a grimy, black fingerprint on the lid of the can of Moon Beam. 

Another contractor comes and finishes the work without anyone reporting black smoke or mysterious touches. Percival finally gets hot, running water and stairs that go all the way to the highest floor in the church. Seraphina goes with him to Ikea and complains the entire time.

“You do not hate everything in here,” he says. “You like the Swedish meatballs.”

“Those have horse meat in them,” Seraphina says. “Look it up.”

“You’re still going to eat them,” Percival says.

“Well, duh, they’re delicious,” she says.

He drags a bed frame upstairs and puts it together with an embarrassing amount of difficulty. When he’s finished, he’s terribly sweaty and feels like he’s been bested by an Ikea bed. It doesn’t even have a mattress on it.

After a shower and dinner, Percival sleeps on the air mattress again. He dreams of darkness and light touches. He always expects another voice in these dreams, but hears Credence instead.

“Percival,” Credence’s voice says. “Percival the pure of heart, so beautiful, so incorruptible.”

“Let me touch you, please,” Credence begs.

“You’re already touching me,” Percival says. 

“Let me touch you,” Credence says.

When he wakes, Percival is half-erect. He sits on the toilet to piss and does his best to point it down. Everything still smells like paint and caulk. The chemical smell seems to cling to his clothing. 

For a week, Percival convinces himself that Credence doesn’t exist at all — the strangely sexual dreams of being praised and pleaded at, it couldn’t more obviously be a manifestation of his trauma. How little Percival wants sex should be apparent in the fact that he tried to become a priest. His dreams are hardly sexual anyway, composed of sweet words and soft touches to his face and hands.

In the winter, the church has heat, but the coffee shop is still warmer.

“Oh, hey,” Tina Goldstein says when she sees him.

“Good morning,” Percival says.

He takes his coffee to his favorite table and she follows.

“So,” she says. “How is Credence?”

Percival stops with the mug halfway to his mouth.

“He helped pick the paint colors,” Percival says.

“Oh!” Tina says. “Wow! Gosh.”

After a moment, she says, “Really?”

“Really,” Percival tells her.

“That’s amazing,” she says. “He must feel so safe around you.”

“I suppose,” Percival says.

When his coffee is half gone, Percival asks her if she’s ever seen Credence.

“Oh, no,” she says. “He’ll beg you not to look at him.”

She looks him in the eye. “Did you see him?”

“No,” Percival says. But he means, “Not yet.”

The futon mattress on an Ikea bed frame — a Fjellse — is barely a step up from an air mattress on the floor. Percival used to sleep in a Upper East Side penthouse on a Duxiana mattress. He can’t even think about that apartment without wanting to throw up.

Discomfort is comfort. 

It brings him closer to God, he used to think.

It takes him further and further away from what happened.

“Please, let me touch you,” Credence begs in his dreams.

So Percival touches him instead. He clutches Credence’s cold hands in his own. He wakes up.

The room is dark, but he feels the weight of a body on top of him. He’s holding a pair of cold hands in his. His arms jerk upward when Credence tries to pull away. 

Percival lets go of one hand and Credence grabs at him, trying to pry Percival’s fingers off of the other. He doesn’t stop Percival from leaning over and hitting the switch at the base of the lamp — once on the floor, it’s been uplifted to a recently purchased bedside table.

Percival hears the gasp and feels Credence scramble off of him. He hears a thud as Credence falls off the bed.

But his hand is still squeezed tight within Percival’s.

“No, please,” Credence begs. “Don’t look at me.”

There is a part of Percival that wants to let go of Credence’s hand, a part of him that wants to turn off the light and let Credence escape in the dark.

“Credence,” Percival says. “How do you want to touch me?”

Maybe this is still a dream. Either that, or the young man has been living in Percival’s house this whole time. It’s comforting to think it’s a dream.

Credence tugs on Percival’s hold.

“Please answer me, Credence,” he says.

Credence stops struggling.

“I want to touch you as a lover,” he says. “I want to drink the sap from your root.”

Despite himself, Percival laughs.

“Don’t laugh at me!” Credence snaps.

“I apologize,” Percival says. “But you should know that I prefer to see my lovers.”

“You’ve had lovers?” Credence asks.

The tonal shifts that Credence is capable of in such a short period of time make Percival want to laugh again, but this time he bites his tongue. 

“A few,” Percival says. 

“But you’re pure,” Credence says.

“I don’t know what to tell you about that,” Percival says, “but I’ve certainly touched cocks that weren’t my own.”

He thinks about the boyfriend he had in high school, and pointedly ignores the other memories that swarm to the forefront of his mind.

“Oh,” Credence says. “I’ve never done that.”

“The devil doesn’t have a cock?” Percival asks.

Now that distracts from any intrusive thoughts he might be experiencing: the sheer surreality of holding a strange man’s hand and asking about Satan’s johnson.

Disappointingly, Credence doesn’t answer.

“I want to see you,” Percival says.

“No,” Credence says, quickly.

“Could we compromise at all?” Percival asks. “Perhaps I could keep my eyes closed, but I’d be allowed to touch you.”

“What?” Credence asks.

“I suppose you could blindfold me, if you don’t trust me to keep my eyes closed,” Percival says. “Or I could turn out the light, but there’s some light coming in through the curtains.”

“You want to touch me?” Credence asks.

“Well,” Percival says. “That’s what lovers do.”

He actually does not know how he feels about touching Credence. This is a terrible idea, really. But it also might just be a very strange dream. It might be a manifestation of Percival’s trauma.

He closes his eyes and tells Credence they’re closed. He feels Credence climbing into bed with him. Percival lets go of his hand and feels both of Credence’s cold hands against his face. He responds by reaching up until he finds Credence’s face. He finds a cold nose and follows it down to a soft mouth. Percival traces that mouth with his thumb and finds it wide and dry. He has a strong chin and Percival cups his face to find he has a broad, square jaw. 

He doesn’t seem ugly, Percival thinks. He has one nose and one mouth and two eyes. His skin feels cold and dry, but mostly smooth. His hair has been cut short above his ears. Percival runs his hands through it at the sides.

Percival parts his lips at Credence’s touch and allows those cold fingers into his mouth. They don’t warm on Percival’s tongue the way he hopes. They don’t warm at all.

Then Percival hits something hard near the top of Credence’s head. He touches it with the side of his fingers, finding it rough enough to scrape him.

It’s a struggle, then, not to open his eyes.

With each hand, Percival takes hold of what feels like a horn.

“Credence?” he says.

“Please don’t look,” Credence says. “Please.”

“So these are horns then?” Percival asks. He finds the ends on them and gently tugs on the right one. Credence’s head moves, but the horn doesn’t.

“Yes,” Credence says. 

Percival makes a sound that has Credence pulling his hands away.

“I don't mind you touching them,” he says, “but I don't want to speak of them.”

“Alright,” Percival says.

He moves his hands back into Credence’s hair and tries, but fails to think of any reasonable explanation. This is certainly a dream, and Credence asks him not to look only because Percival’s imagination could never stretch to create whatever it thinks Credence ought to look like.

“We could kiss,” Percival says, while Credence repeatedly strokes the morning stubble on his cheeks.

“I would like that,” Credence says. 

Percival draws him down with his hands behind Credence’s head. Their mouths meet unevenly at first. Credence’s nose presses against his own uncomfortably. Percival moves his head against the pillow and kisses Credence as softly as he can. 

He brushes his tongue over Credence’s dry lips and startles the softest sound out of him. 

Percival smiles to himself with his mouth still against Credence’s. Then Credence returns the favor, with the tip of his tongue pressing against Percival’s lips. Percival meets Credence’s tongue with his own just to be silly, but Credence pushes the depth of the kiss. His tongue is cool in Percival’s mouth and feels like it reaches to the back of his throat. Credence turns his head and kisses Percival deeper still. He moans. Percival feels it in his teeth. 

His heart pounds harder when he realizes he can’t quite breathe. 

Credence pulls back with a gasp. Percival’s hands slip to the back of his neck. He finds only bare skin at Credence’s throat and down his shoulders. He has a prominent collarbone and Percival finds he can wrap his hands around Credence’s upper arm. It alarms him.

“Credence,” he says, wondering if they should stop.

“I want to do that again,” Credence says.

“Please, Percival.”

Percival sighs.

“When did you last have something to eat, Credence?” he asks.

“I don’t need to eat anymore,” Credence tells him. “But I might feed from your kisses and be satisfied for years.”

Percival fights the urge to open his eyes.

“You’re joking,” he says. “Everyone needs to eat, Credence.”

“Oh, yes,” Credence says. “But I eat the sins of men, their filth and wickedness.”

“Doesn’t sound very appetizing,” Percival says.

“It isn’t,” Credence says. He leans down close enough to breathe against Percival’s lips. He’s so thin in Percival’s hands, not even dressed and Percival can feel every rib. It becomes less alarming and more deeply frightening. If he dreamed this up, then what sort of monster is he?

“Your kisses would make a much better meal,” Credence says.

Percival sighs and touches his lips to Credence’s mouth. 

Credence clutches him, then, and kisses him just as deeply as before. He steals the breath from Percival’s lungs. He kisses him so deep that he must be licking Percival’s tonsils at this rate. The dark behind Percival’s eyelids sparks with strange colors. He kisses back and, when he cannot take another moment, bites at Credence’s tongue. 

He pulls back with a whine and Percival gasps for breath.

“I didn’t know it felt good,” Credence says. “Will it feel this good to put you in my mouth?”

“Mercy,” Percival says. He’s getting aroused, but he’s not nearly hard enough to hear Credence say such things.

“Could I try it?” Credence asks. “May I, please?”

“I asked for mercy,” Percival says, though he hardly means to direct it at Credence.

“If I drank from you, Percival,” Credence says, “I’m sure I could live another hundred years comfortably.”

He presses his mouth to the corner of Percival’s lips as sweet as a lover.

“Oh, these kisses feel good too,” he says. “May I keep kissing you?”

“Yes,” Percival says.

“Thank you, Percival,” Credence says, before he peppers Percival’s cheek and jaw with small kisses. His mouth never warms, Percival realizes.

His hands caress Percival’s shoulders and arms. He touches Percival’s chest and pulls back the blanket on top of him.

“May I kiss your throat?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says, feeling somewhat lost. With his eyes closed, it’s easy to think this is a dream. Of course it’s a dream. It has to be a dream.

Credence kisses down one side of Percival’s neck and up the other.

“You could grow a nice beard,” Credence says. He reaches up to run his fingers along the edge of Percival’s jaw.

“Thank you,” Percival says. 

Since Credence has pulled back the blankets, Percival expects his cool hands at the hem of the shirt he slept in. Instead, Credence kisses the fabric of his shirt. He presses his nose against the center of Percival’s chest and rubs his cheek against him.

Percival reaches up blindly and bangs his knuckles against one of Credence’s horns — just in case he had forgotten those were there. He hisses.

Credence freezes, but he’s still there for Percival to pet his hair.

“Oh,” Credence says. 

He tips his head back into Credence’s touch.

“You remind me of a cat,” Percival says.

“Is that… bad?” Credence asks.

“No,” Percival says. He sighs.

“Not at all.”

He runs his fingers through Credence’s hair again and again. He feels Credence inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth against the thin fabric of his shirt. The fabric catches on Credence’s lips every few kisses.

He makes his way down Percival’s chest and then his belly quite methodically.

Percival feels short of breath, a strange mix of anxiety and arousal.

Credence’s chin presses against his pelvis, then his nose reaches the waistband of Percival’s boxers. He grabs hard without thinking, not Credence’s hair but the roughness of one horn. Percival opens his eyes, but all he sees is the slanted ceiling overhead and the strange shadows cast by the bedside lamp.

Without a sound, Credence tries to pull away. Percival’s arm jerks with the force of it, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t mean to hurt Credence. 

Percival blinks and then lets go. 

He puts a hand over his eyes like an afterthought.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t know whether he’s apologizing for grabbing Credence or for opening his eyes.

“It’s fine,” Credence says. 

Percival sighs. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s not?” Credence asks. His voice rises anxiously.

“Even if this is a dream,” Percival says, “I should treat you better than this.”

“Oh,” Credence says. “Is this a dream?”

“Isn’t it?” Percival asks. 

Credence must move, then, because Percival can hear him sigh and the soft sound of skin against the bedsheets. He pulls the blankets down to Percival’s knees.

“It feels like a dream for me too,” Credence says.

He puts his hands on Percival’s thighs and Percival’s body jerks. He feels himself getting goosebumps. How are Credence’s hands so cold against his skin?

“I think I could do it through your clothes,” Credence says. “I’m not sure how, but I think I could. If you don’t want to undress.”

Percival’s not sure he wants to do this at all. But it’s only a dream. So he squeezes his eyes shut and uses both hands to push the elastic of his boxers down. He could be more gentle about it.

Credence inhales, audibly.

Lifting his hips, Percival pushes his underwear down to his thighs. Credence’s hands move in to help. One leg and then the other, Percival’s down to nothing but a shirt. Which, actually, seems kind of ridiculous. He hesitates for a moment and then grabs the hem to pull it off.

“You’re beautiful,” Credence says. 

He puts his hands on Percival’s thighs and leans his weight down on him. His cool mouth touches the softness under Percival’s navel where the hair creeping up his belly thins out.

“Body and soul,” Credence says. 

“Yes, this must be a dream.”

He rubs his face between Percival’s legs so that his chin grinds against Percival’s cock. Credence’s breath is lost in the hair that frames it. Somehow, Percival’s still only half hard. Even while Credence breaths against him and kisses the curve of his dick. Credence licks him once and then puts his mouth around the tip of Percival’s cock.

“Mercy Lewis,” Percival says. He covers half his face with one hand, because he’s afraid he might look. 

Credence opens his mouth and takes him in, so that Percival’s dick gets hard against his tongue. Percival can feel Credence trying to push his tongue out past his teeth while Percival’s cock goes down his throat. Credence licks him in a way that makes Percival nearly squawk. 

It makes Credence laugh and — heaven help him — Percival feels the vibration of that.

As though he suddenly remembers that he needs to breathe, Credence pulls back panting. He puts a hand around Percival’s erection and strokes the spit-slicked skin.

His tongue can’t possibly be human with the way it laves at the joint of Percival’s hip and thigh. He drags it over the soft skin of Percival’s testicles. Percival groans. Then he feels Credence open his mouth and suck on that skin as though it was the head of Percival’s cock.

By the time Credence works his way back to Percival’s dick, Percival feels like he’ll never catch his breath. He sees stars behind his eyelids.

“Credence,” he says. 

His hand shakes against the mattress. He’s afraid to touch Credence for fear of grabbing him too hard. Even his dreams, Percival is afraid.

Or maybe he’s shaking for other reasons.

Credence switches between swallowing around Percival’s cock and licking the head every way imaginable. Percival swears he can feel Credence’s tongue wrap around him. Maybe that’s just his hand. But it is a dream, after all.

Percival grabs the blanket in his fist.

“Credence,” he says. “I’m going to come.”

Credence puts his lips around the head and sucks hard. The tip of his tongue pushes against the tender spot on the underside of the head — the frenulum. Percival thinks of the word for a perfect, bizarre moment. Then he groans like he’s been hit. He comes hard enough to make his lower back twinge at the way his muscles tense. He feels it from his shoulders to his testicles to his toes.

“Fuck,” he hisses, groaning again. 

Credence doesn’t let up even once it’s over. He mouths the head of Percival’s cock with lips and tongue until Percival thighs shiver.

“Stop, stop,” he begs.

Credence stops instantly.

“Thank you, Percival,” he says, with a rasp in his voice. 

He makes a soft hum of a noise. Then he takes his hands off of Percival.

“Let me repay the favor,” Percival says, when he can catch his breath.

He waits for a response that doesn’t come.

Percival reaches out blindly but his hand touches nothing but air. 

“Credence?” he asks. When there’s no answer, Percival takes his hand from his eyes.

This is nothing like waking up. Percival blinks at his ceiling and looks around the room — empty. The blankets have been pulled down and Percival’s clothes are strewn across the bed. He picks his boxers up and puts them on as he gets out of bed.

Is he still dreaming?

He goes downstairs, looking into every dim corner. The clock on the coffeemaker tells him it’s just shy of 5 a.m., which means the automatic system hasn’t activated. He makes a pot of coffee anyway.

As he drinks the first cup, Percival wonders what exactly he just experienced.

Because it certainly wasn’t a dream.


	2. The Goat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about domestic abuse, suicide, and grief, and includes a person and a demon with PTSD navigating the bumpy road of consensual sex after trauma.

Percival expects to regress. He worries he’ll obsess over this new incident and grow paranoid — again. He anticipates a backslide in his mental and physical well-being.

After all, someone came into his house, into his bed, and had sex with him. He doesn’t even know what Credence looks like. Some unhinged stranger with horns sucked his cock.

He ought to be angry or hurt when he thinks of it, the way he is about so many other things.

Instead, he dreams about it. He imagines Credence as Doré’s winged Satan one night, and as a cartoonishly red-skinned devil with a spade tail the next. He imagines Credence in his lap, pressing a hand over his eyes as he fills Percival’s mouth with that long tongue. He dreams of kisses and cold hands, of tongues and horns. 

Some mornings he makes it to the bathroom shower, but other days he wakes to his 5:30 a.m. alarm and can’t leave bed until he’s jerked himself off.

And Percival can honestly say he hasn’t felt so good in years.

He catches himself whistling one morning while he holds his coffee cup and waits for the toaster to pop. He eats his breakfast in his boxers and is still smiling to himself as he gets dressed.

Seraphina has him speaking to a potential investor, which might have given Percival reason to feel anxious and awful on its own. But he feels downright optimistic. He tears a sheet off the notepad meant for grocery lists on the fridge.

“Help yourself, Credence,” he writes, leaving the paper folded and hanging off the basket of fruits and vegetables.

The meeting goes well — as well as it can, anyway. The woman seems mostly like she wants someone to talk to about her brother who committed suicide. She inherited his business, which belonged to their father before him, but she’s liquidating most of the assets. She talks calmly about watching her father throw her brother off a second-story balcony in the Hamptons.

Percival listens and asks her what she would like to see the money go towards.

“You know,” she says, “I think it would be good if there was just someone… someone to listen. I think Marv would still be here if he’d had someone like you to talk to.”

She dabs her lower eyelids with the side of her hand and breathes only a little wetly.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” Percival tells her. 

“Please,” she says, “let me know when the center opens.”

He goes home and reviews the resumes of licensed social workers and clinical psychologists.

It isn’t until the next morning, when he’s again eating his breakfast and feeling all too content, that Percival sees the folded up piece of paper on the counter.

He sips his coffee and opens it with one hand.

“Thank you, Percival,” is written in blocky, simple letters.

But he doesn’t notice any food missing from the counter or the fridge. In fact, Percival never notices anything amiss at all in the church.

Furniture gets delivered. Winter turns into spring. Interviews are done. Employment contracts written.

Somewhere along the line, Percival stops shaving.

“God, tell me that’s not another depression beard,” Seraphina says, over Pad Thai with generous amounts of shrimp.

“No,” Percival says. “Someone told me I’d look good with a beard.”

She squints at him.

“Who?”

“Uhm,” Percival says. “A guy. It was really an off-handed comment. But I thought I’d see if it was true.”

Seraphina purses her lips and hums, then she puts a whole cooked shrimp in her mouth. 

When she’s done chewing, she says, “You look old.”

She shrugs and tilts her chopsticks away from her face. “But that’s just my opinion.”

“Consider it noted,” Percival says. 

At the coffee shop across the street, Queenie greets him with, “Well, hello stranger.”

“I’ve been a little busy lately,” he tells her.

“I saw! You’ve had all kinds of visitors,” she says, smiling. “I like the beard, by the way, it’s very distinguished.”

“You think so?” he asks.

She laughs, and a man behind her with a mustache asks her if she thinks he should grow a beard too. She laughs harder.

Percival leaves a tip in the jar and takes his coffee back to his favorite table. He watches Queenie and the man, presumably her fiance, chat between customers and then spring into smiles every time someone walks through the door. Percival tries to remember the fiance’s name, certain that Queenie told him. Jared Kowalski? Jason Kowalski?

It’s late morning; the early rush seems to have already come and gone. He doesn’t see Tina, but he thinks about what he might say to her if she asked about the church and Credence.

The furniture is finally all in place. Contracts have been signed with insurance companies and banks. Spring turns into summer and summer into fall, though it’s still hot enough to make him regret wearing a suit and tie. He feels he must; with the beard, he often looks too casual in just a shirt.

The work has not manifested the way he thought it might. The church will be more resource center than shelter, but that fits the needs. It certainly fits the desires of donors — and, of course, he’s met all of those through Seraphina. He cannot help but see her subtle hand in the shift.

It’s still the work he wants to be doing.

Though he didn’t expect the only full time employee he’s hired so far to be a lawyer.

He finishes his coffee and places the mug on the tray to be collected after he goes. It’s better than leaving it on the table to be cleared by someone with better things to do.

“Credence,” he says, after he shuts the door and locks it.

“I know there have been a lot of people in and out recently, and I wanted to let you know — if it wasn’t already obvious — that I’ll be opening the doors in the next week. I don’t want it to disturb you.”

He has no proof that Credence is still around, only a general feeling that he hasn’t left.

The opening week is full of non-events. The lawyer has plenty of work and takes lots of calls. Percival feels a little bit like her secretary, but doesn’t mind it. He meets people, some of them quiet in a way that speaks more of discomfort than shyness and a few angry in the way that seems to show how hard they are trying to restrain themselves. He has to explain to a few people that it’s not a shelter, but he gives them directions. He even drives one man to a friend’s house and gives him a card with his cellphone number on it.

The lawyer, Rodriguez, doesn’t mind getting lunch at the coffee shop. He introduces her to Queenie and watches Rodriguez try her damnedest to flirt despite the ring on Queenie’s finger.

A woman calls and spends an hour berating Percival about how he’s wasting limited grant money, but he listens to her anyway. That’s maybe the most exciting thing that happens in the week.

Seraphina sends him flowers at the end of the second week and he puts them in a glass vase on a table near the entrance. 

Rodriguez starts work on a kid stuck in jail because of postponed court hearings after he shot his mother’s abuser. She has Percival fetch court documents on a few other cases. When he gets back, a young man with a black eye and split lip sits slouched beside the flowers. 

Percival looks at him and wonders if he only imagined there were red tulips in the flowers that Seraphina sent him. There aren’t any now. Maybe they wilted and Rodriguez threw them out.

“Hi, uh, I found you on Google,” the young man says, without sitting up. “I think I need a... a restraining order against my girlfriend.”

“Alright,” Percival says. 

He introduces him to Rodriguez, but she comes back out to the front desk.

“Hey, I think you should talk to him,” she says. “I think he just… needs someone to talk to and I don’t do that.”

“But I do,” Percival says. He nods.

“You’re gonna have to answer the phones if anyone calls.” 

“Hey, I went to law school. I can answer a phone,” Rodriguez says.

The man doesn’t need someone to talk to so much as he needs someone to listen, and Percival is good at listening. It’s something he’s had to practice, but security work was always a lot of listening anyway. He didn’t think about it much until he left the field. 

Andrew talks about how his girlfriend and he were friends in high school. He spends twenty minutes explaining Type 1 Diabetes to Percival, which is an obvious distraction.

“I always carry snacks and, like, in school, I’d just have one of those lunch coolers in my bag with juice in it, ’cause she’s not really good at remembering that stuff,” he says. “And I just, fuck, who is going to take care of her? I can’t do this.”

“Is there anyone taking care of you?” Percival asks.

Andrew blinks twice and looks at the ceiling. He collapses slowly, just sliding back in his chair.

“Well, there was my brother,” he says. 

Andrew’s brother died a few months ago; he tells Percival this without crying. But he just stares at the ceiling and blinks the whole time: talking about how he played football together as kids and were making bets on the drafts this year. They were going to have a fantasy team together. 

Percival asks about Andrew’s parents, about his job. Does he drink? Has he been to a therapist before? Does he go to church?

“No,” he says. “But I used to when I was a kid, uh, my mom’s Catholic.”

Percival explains his own credentials. He tells Andrew about Paloma and Limus, who are arguably far more qualified and experienced.

“Or you could come back and talk to me,” he says.

“I think that would be… good,” Andrew says.

“Alright,” Percival says.

After he walks out the door, Percival feels kind of like he’s had his insides scooped out with one of those classic ice cream scoops — the heavy, metal kind that makes perfect spheres of ice cream. He feels like a pockmarked gallon of Rocky Road.

“Do you like ice cream?” he asks Rodriguez.

“Who doesn’t like ice cream?” she asks.

“The lactose intolerant,” he offers.

They close the doors at 5 p.m. and get ice cream.

“I’m going to meet some friends for drinks,” Rodriguez tells him while eating a cone of soft serve filled with dulce de leche and dipped in chocolate. “Wanna come?”

“I don’t drink,” Percival says.

Rodriguez lifts one eyebrow. “Weren’t you gonna be a priest?”

There’s a bit of chocolate melted above her upper lip on the left side of her mouth.

“Yes,” he says. 

“But you’re gay, right?” she asks. “Sorry, I know, none of my business, but Seraphina mentioned it when I asked about working with you — y’know, like, was it gonna be weird if I took this job, because I’m...” She gestures at her own short hair and bowtie.

“Yes, I’m gay,” he says. 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of a contradiction?” she asks. 

Percival takes a moment to answer because he’s chewing on a chocolate-dusted marshmallow.

“Yes,” he says. “Seraphina, actually.”

The ice cream is too expensive and too big, but worthwhile. He had been meaning to try this place, anyway, and it seems like it’s probably worth the obnoxious line of tourists. 

He walks back to Carmine Street on his own. He checks the office voicemail, then washes some dishes and checks the appointments for the following Monday. It’s early by the time he decides to get ready for bed, but ice cream for dinner isn’t the thrill that it ought to be. He feels queasy in a way that a hot shower seems to help.

Percival is almost asleep on his side when he feels breath against the back of his neck. He can feel the weight of a body pulling on the blankets at his back, but he didn’t notice anyone climbing into bed with him. 

“Credence,” he says. 

“You’re awake?” Credence asks.

“Yes,” Percival says.

“Oh,” Credence says.

“Have you,” Percival starts. He doesn’t know how to phrase the question he wants to ask.

“Am I usually asleep when you do this?” he asks. 

Credence backs away and doesn’t touch Percival at all.

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s only been a few times. I swear.”

“Did you take the tulips?” Percival asks. At the same time Credence tells him, “I was afraid you’d wake up and see me.”

“Sorry,” Credence adds. “Yes, I thought they were pretty. I’ll put them back.”

“You can keep them,” Percival says. “I did tell you to help yourself. This is your home, after all.”

After a long moment, Credence says, “Thank you.”

He moves closer and puts his hand against Percival’s side over the blankets.

“If you’re awake,” Credence says, “could we do what we did last time?”

“Or,” he adds, “anything else you would like.”

“Perhaps,” Percival says. “I’ve certainly been thinking of things I’d like to do with you.”

“Really?” Credence asks, as though he’s even more surprised by this than finding Percival awake.

“Yes,” Percival says. “Quite often, actually.”

“What sort of things?” Credence asks. “Do you think you would like to do with me?”

“Well,” Percival says, “I think the thing I’d like the most would be to see you.”

“No,” Credence says, instantly.

“Alright,” Percival says, “then I’ll live without any of the other things.”

In the silence that follows, Percival expects that Credence will slip out of his bed and go. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on falling asleep again. But Credence does not take his hand away. His breath moves the short hairs at the back of Percival’s neck. Credence’s fingers tighten slightly, enough to move the fabric of the topsheet.

“What _other_ things?” he asks.

Percival yawns, then hums slightly. He feels far more relaxed than he ought to with a stranger like Credence in bed and touching him.

“I think about returning the favor,” Percival says. “I’d like to have your cock in my mouth, I think. It’s not a contest, but I think I’m fairly good at it.”

He laughs a little. “I’m not sure I ought to tell you the things I’ve thought about your tongue.”

“Please,” Credence says. “Tell me.”

The end of his nose presses cold against the nape of Percival’s neck.

“It’s very long,” Percival says. “I wondered how it would feel if you fucked me with it. It’s just… You have a lot of enthusiasm and a very talented tongue.”

Credence breathes heavily against his skin.

“Then, I usually think, if I want you to fuck me with your tongue, you might as well fuck me,” Percival says. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.”

“You want me to penetrate you,” Credence says. His voice does not rise into a question. He just says it and Percival wonders if he can’t quite believe it until he’s put it into his own words.

“But not if I can’t look at you,” Percival says. “I don’t think I can do anything more with you if I don’t see you. It really has been a pleasure and I’ll continue thinking about it, I will, but… it’s a very intimate thing.”

“I’m ugly,” Credence says. “A freak.”

“I already know about the horns,” Percival says.

Credence’s hand suddenly abandons his side.

“But I like them,” Percival says. “I’d like to know what color they are. I keep imagining that they're red, or maybe black.”

“Neither,” Credence says. “They're just ugly.”

“That's a matter of taste,” Percival says. “I'm sure there are people who find red tulips to be simply hideous.”

“No,” Credence says.

“Well, even if I can't see you,” Percival says. “I don't mind sharing a bed with you, Credence. You're welcome here any night of the week.”

“Thank you,” Credence says.

Percival closes his eyes again and feels Credence place his hand against his side. His arm slides slowly over the blanket until he has Percival in half of an embrace. 

“I think that if you saw me, you wouldn’t want any of those things,” Credence says, a whisper against the back of Percival’s neck.

“That’s rather presumptuous,” Percival says, only half-awake.

“I know,” Credence says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Percival says. “Everyone... makes assumptions.”

“I want you to see me,” Credence says, “but I also don’t.”

“I don’t want to force you,” Percival says. “I’m comfortable with things just the way they are.”

“I’m not,” Credence says.

Percival stretches his shoulders and lets out a sigh. He feels suddenly very awake.

“Well,” he says. 

There’s no time to suggest a compromise or reassure Credence with something he hasn’t thought of yet. There’s no time to think. Credence pushes himself up using his hand on Percival’s ribs for leverage. He sees the shape of Credence’s outstretched arm in the dark, the shadow of him.

Percival shuts his eyes against the sudden brightness of the bedside lamp.

“Look at me,” Credence says.

Percival blinks and watches the spots dancing in his vision.

“You’re sure?” he asks. He reaches up and rubs his eyes until the spots start to fade.

“Yes,” Credence says.

He turns onto his back, first, and looks up at the slanted ceiling. Credence is a smudge at the edge of his vision, the sort of thing that naturally draws the eye.

Percival’s head turns. He starts to sit up. Credence kneels on the bed beside him. His pale skin looks almost bluish for the veins visible at his arms and throat. 

Where Percival expected gaunt thinness, he's relieved to find Credence only skinny. His hair is longer than Percival felt, also. It hangs dark to the edges of his jaw. He doesn't seem to comb it.

His eyes — Percival sits up fully so that he can look at Credence’s eyes. The white of them isn't a veiny sclera. It's not the milky white of cataracts. Credence's eyes seem to glow, casting light against his short, dark lashes. Percival leans in closer. 

Credence’s lips look dry, but they are pink. He has a wide mouth, but Percival cannot imagine anyone describing it as ugly. A faint scar sits under Credence’s eye, raised against his skin. 

“May I touch you?” Percival asks.

Credence narrows his colorless eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because you’re beautiful,” Percival tells him. 

Credence blinks. 

Percival glances up, just so he can be sure of the color of the horns. He wanted to know that so badly. Brown, just brown, he sees, with a greyish patina as though Credence doesn’t care for them. But the horns don’t hold Percival’s attention the way Credence’s face does.

His cheekbones stand out so starkly it casts shadows over the hollow of his cheeks. The width of his jaw makes Percival think of nothing so much as the covers of _Men’s Health_. While the rest of him is perhaps more Fashion Week — or _The X-Files_.

Credence’s eyes transfix him. Every time he tries to look at the rest of him, Percival finds himself drifting back to the bright white of his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Percival says, sitting up.

He leans in close enough to feel Credence’s breath shiver over his lips. So he moves even closer, until the end of his nose brushes against Credence’s. Percival puts a hand against Credence’s cheek and feels Credence’s touch brushing against the side of his neck.

“If you were lying,” Credence says, “that would be a sin and I would know.”

“I’m not lying,” Percival says. “I think you’re beautiful.”

He pulls back just to take in the full sight of Credence’s face again. Credence’s hand grips the back of his neck tightly, so he can only pull away so far.

“Does that mean that you still want to do all those things?” Credence asks. “With me?”

“God yes,” Percival says.

“Blasphemy is a sin,” Credence tells him.

“I am aware of that,” Percival says. He smiles a little, half at the humor and half simply at the privilege of Credence’s beauty. This face, this work of sculpture masquerading as a face, was between Percival’s thighs once. He feels lightheaded to even consider it. But Percival doesn’t regret keeping his eyes closed that night. If he had not respected Credence’s trust, he would surely not have this moment now.

“Before we do those things,” Credence says, “may I have a kiss?”

“Yes,” Percival tells him. “Certainly, yes.”

In hesitating, jerky motions, Credence leans toward him. He shuts his brilliantly white eyes and, for a moment, Percival sees him as nothing more or less than a gorgeous man with dark eyelashes and tangled hair. He is beautiful in a way that makes Percival’s heart stammer. He tilts his head when Credence squeezes the back of his neck. He opens his mouth to the brush of Credence’s tongue against his lips. He does not close his eyes.

Credence does. He squeezes his eyes shut so that all Percival can make out is the blur of his lashes. His cool hands reach out and cup Percival’s face. He pushes with the whole weight of his body, which is not as skinny as Percival feared. Percival goes down against the bed because he wants to be there. He wants Credence on him. He had forgotten how intense it was to _want_.

His fingers catch in the knots of Credence's hair. Small whines get lost in their kisses as Credence presses his tongue into Percival’s mouth.

It muffles Percival’s voice when he tries to speak.

But Credence pulls back suddenly. His bright white eyes look startled. His lips shine with spit.

“What?” Credence asks. The tendons of his neck stand out.

“Am I hurting you?” Percival asks.

The smallest line appears between Credence’s brows. “What?”

“Pulling your hair,” Percival says. “I don't mean to, but I, uh, keep getting caught.”

“I don't care,” Credence says. “Pull it if you want to.”

This time Percival is the one scowling. “What do you want, Credence?”

“To kiss you,” Credence says. “Until I forget anything else. Just to kiss you.”

His thumb rubs against Percival’s cheek, never getting any warmer.

“Please,” Credence says.

“Yes,” Percival says, and Credence kisses him again. He holds him down and kisses him until Percival gasps into Credence’s open mouth for air. The length of Credence’s tongue hits the back of his throat, making him gag. Credence pulls away suddenly.

“How long,” Percival says, panting for breath, “is your — your tongue?”

Credence blinks at him. “I’ve never measured it.”

“Well,” Percival says. “Sit up a moment, let me get my clothes off.”

Springing back, Credence looks about ready to jump off the bed. 

“You don’t need to do that,” he says, grabbing at Percival’s bedsheets.

Percival stops in place. He looks at Credence, who is wide-eyed and pale. Tension shivers through every inch of him.

“I’m not sure how we can do all the things I have in mind if I keep my clothes on,” Percival says. “Besides, it seems kind of unfair, when you’re already undressed.”

“Oh,” Credence says. His shoulders relax in fractions. 

“Kiss me again,” Percival says, “and we’ll figure it out.”

This Credence rushes to do. He takes Percival’s face in his hands and it leaves Percival free to drag the blanket down between them. He can slip out of his boxers under the sheet and pull his shirt up awkwardly between their chests. 

When Percival finally pulls away from Credence’s insistent tongue to gasp for breath, he yanks his shirt up over his head.

“Oh!” Credence says.

Credence leans away and Percival lies back on the bed, letting himself be seen. It’s only fair, after all the staring he has been doing at Credence. But there’s something about the bright glow of Credence’s gaze that makes Percival feel _seen_ in ways he never has before.

Credence stops and somehow Percival knows he’s looking at his face again. “You wanted to know how long my tongue is.”

“Yes?” Percival says, unsure.

Credence opens his mouth slowly, his full lips parting and very ordinary teeth on display. His tongue is the normal red-pink that Percival would expect on any man. If anything, it only looks a bit pointed when Credence first sticks it out. Then it reaches past his chin, almost eclipsing it in width. If it weren’t for his strong jaw, Credence’s tongue would dominate his face like this. It reaches nearly halfway down his neck.

“Oh, wow.”

Pulling his tongue back into his mouth, Credence smiles almost shyly.

“It’s just my tongue,” he says, voice soft.

“I really like it,” Percival says. “I’m completely impressed. No wonder you’re such a breathtakingly good kisser.”

A bit of pink rises on Credence’s aggressively sharp cheekbones. He leans in close and kisses Percival lightly on the mouth once, then upon his cheek. He finds Percival’s ear and leaves Percival worrying about when he last trimmed his ear hair.

“You’re beautiful,” Credence whispers. “Percival, you are so beautiful to behold.”

He pulls back and Percival can feel the gaze of those bright eyes travelling up and down his body, though half of it is still hidden by a sheet.

“Hey, I could say the same,” Percival says.

“Don’t,” Credence tells him.

“I want to,” Percival says. He reaches up for the fierce geometry of Credence’s cheek. “You are so beautiful.”

“Credence,” he says, his thumb against Credence’s face and his fingers tucking along the edge of his square jaw.

“You’re not lying,” Credence says. He leans in closer to Percival and gazes into his eyes until Percival sees spots of light even when he blinks.

“No,” Percival says, “why would I lie about that?”

Credence’s breath ghosts across Percival’s mouth. “No one has ever called me beautiful before.”

It feels as though Credence has reached into Percival’s chest with his words and holds his heart within his fist. It hurts. Percival swallows. His breath shudders a little. He can feel himself going soft, where he was achingly hard and nervous with Credence’s eyes on his body and Credence’s tongue in his mouth.

“The devil doesn’t think his whores are pretty?” Percival tries to joke. “What a dick.”

“The devil is not a man,” Credence says, his lips close enough to kiss.

“Oh? A woman then,” Percival says. “Then she’s not very nice either.”

In the silence, Credence kisses his lips and then his chin. He kisses Percival’s throat and presses his face against that spot. He presses down against Percival until it’s only natural for Percival to put his arms around Credence’s bare shoulders.

“The devil is a creature made of unending flames,” Credence murmurs against his neck.

“Oh,” Percival says. This feels like revelation. He feels his reality rearrange itself to fit this truth. “The black smoke… Credence, was there a fire here?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Credence says.

“That's alright,” Percival says.

He takes time to explore Credence’s neck with his hands, he feels out the bumps of his vertebrae. He massages muscles that feel tense as wire. He traces the width of Credence’s shoulders, feels the wings of his shoulder blades under his palms.

“You really are beautiful, Credence,” he says. “And there are lots of things we can do beside talk.”

There are so many things Percival maybe should say, things he should explain to Credence before they do this. His body still feels like an old warzone, pockmarked with explosive mines. But Credence must feel the same way. 

Percival is not made of fire. Credence, whatever he might be, is clearly not a man. These things are obvious, but they feel important, as though Percival should stop and say them out loud.

“Tell me what to do,” Credence says. “I've never done this.”

“Let’s just kiss for a while,” Percival says. “You can kiss me anywhere you want and when you want to do more than that, just tell me.”

“What if,” Credence starts.

He looks up and there is a little line of worry between his dark brows. “What if you don’t like it?”

“I’ll tell you,” Percival says. “Or you can ask before you try something, and I’ll tell you.”

“Oh,” Credence says. “Alright.”

He hesitates for a moment and somehow Percival knows that Credence is looking at him. He pulls the blankets down slightly and watches Credence’s chin tip down towards his collarbone. It makes him smile for a moment; the smile grows when Credence’s head snaps back up.

They kiss, with Percival putting an arm around Credence’s shoulders. Nothing stands between their skin now, but neither of them is fully hard yet. Should that be strange? Percival finds it kind of reassuring. He moves one hand up and down the length of Credence’s back as they kiss. Credence pulls the breath from Percival’s lungs. He holds Percival’s shoulders with warming hands. 

Percival gets hard slowly and, on top of him, Credence moves his hips so that his cock rubs against his thigh. There is no threat to it. Percival feels at ease. 

Is that unusual? He can’t compare it to past experiences. Credence sweeps aside Percival’s memories, both good and bad, with the hesitant brush of his hands over Percival’s ribs.

He touches Credence’s hair and does not pull when he hits a snag or a tangle. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against Credence’s mouth when the kiss slows and ends.

“So are you,” Credence says.

He leans up on his elbows and looks at Percival with the slightest flush on his cheeks.

“May I,” he begins, “kiss your chest?”

“Kiss me anywhere you like,” Percival says, and he means it.

Credence looks at him with those bright, bright eyes and after a moment he smiles. It’s just the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, but it makes his flushed face change in subtle and amazing ways. Percival’s hand slips over the back of Credence’s neck as he moves to touch Credence’s cheek.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

He kisses Percival’s throat first, tongue moving against the stubble coming in along the underside of his jaw. He traces the shape of Percival’s adam’s apple with long strokes. Percival shivers slightly, which makes Credence stop. He ducks down and kisses the hollow of Percival’s throat.

His hands rest on Percival’s arms, but he moves one to Percival’s chest. There’s not much there, Percival thinks, but Credence runs his hand over his skin and hair like an exploration. He presses a his finger against Percival’s nipple before kissing it. Percival inhales sharply through his nose. His cock twitches. 

“Oh,” Credence says. “That feels nice.”

He presses the pointed end of his tongue against it and kisses it again. He plants kisses across the width of Percival’s chest and along his ribs. His nose pushes against Percival’s skin, flattened slightly by Credence’s enthusiasm.

“Salt,” he says, picking up his head.

“Yes?” Percival asks.

“That’s what you taste like,” Credence says, with that subtle smile. “And something else.”

“Soap, maybe,” Percival suggests.

“Purity,” Credence says.

Percival snorts. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reaches up and touches Credence hair.

“I am very serious,” Credence replies. He bows his head and Percival’s fingers brush against his horn instead. The roughness against his fingertips sends shivers down Percival’s body. He feels his pulse throb in the base of his cock. 

Sinking down further, Credence leaves a wet kiss right at the center of Percival’s belly. He licks him, then, more than he kisses. His mouth is open and warm. The skin Credence isn’t kissing breaks out in goosebumps. The hair on Percival’s arms rises, maybe even the hair on his legs.

Percival’s hand gets pulled lower by the loose hold he keeps around Credence’s horn. Credence looks up for a moment, offering him a quick glimpse of those bright white eyes, before he kisses Percival’s hipbone. Credence’s cheek nearly brushes against his cock; Percival finds he’s holding his breath in anticipation. 

Credence turns his head very carefully. Percival feels his breath against his skin. He presses his face into the dark curls framing Percival’s erection. The very sight of that ethereal face pressed against him like this makes Percival’s heart race.

“Oh,” he says. “Wow.”

The bed only offers Credence so much space, but Percival leaves his legs wide open. Now he finds himself moving his knees even further apart. Between them Credence folds up like a supplicant, a worshiper. 

He puts his hands against Percival’s waist, then his hips.

“Is this alright?” Credence asks, moving down to touch Percival’s inner thighs. He’s looking up again and Percival needs a moment to catch his breath before he can answer.

“Yes,” he says.

Everything between them happens in whispers, soft voices. There’s so much quiet that Percival can hear his own breathing. His pulse rings inside his ears.

Finally, when Percival feels wound tight with anticipation, Credence kisses the side of his erection. He works his way to the very tip. Percival shuts his eyes at the sight of Credence’s full lips against the head of his cock. He feels Credence’s tongue moving down the length and opens his eyes just to _see_ Credence work his way back up.

If he’s lucky, that image will stay with him for the rest of his days.

Credence rises up slightly, his weight pressing down against Percival’s thighs.

“I want to do what you talked about,” Credence says. “But I…”

He looks up at Percival, and Percival can’t help but swallow. He opens his mouth, but can’t form words. When he rubs a hand against his face, he feels the dampness of his sweat.

“Should you turn over?” Credence asks.

“Oh,” Percival says. His mind feels empty — not only of worries, but of any thoughts at all. Credence isn’t looking for a polite way to decline fucking him; he’s just trying to puzzle out the mechanics. Percival takes his hand off Credence’s horn and levers himself up using his elbows.

“We could do it like that, yes,” he says, feeling winded at just being thoroughly kissed.

“Would you like to?” Credence asks.

Percival would like to be able to see Credence while they do this. It makes it all real, being able to see him. Besides, he’s beautiful. He is so beautiful it makes Percival’s mouth water.

“However you’re comfortable is fine with me,” Percival says. “I can turn over.”

Credence frowns at him. “You don’t want to.”

“What?” Percival says. “No?”

“Lying is a sin,” Credence says. “I know when you’re lying.”

Now Percival frowns. His own eyebrows move into his line of sight. When he kicks the bedsheets off his legs, Credence startles back. His own cock thumps against his body. Everything moves without Percival meaning it to.

“I’m not lying,” Percival says. “I’m not…”

He stops to take a breath. The tightness in his chest, in his throat, in his head, seems to fade for a moment. He focuses on his breathing. He closes his eyes. Credence’s hands squeeze his thighs. His fingers are warm. His palms rub against the hair on Percival’s legs. A warm, damp mouth presses to the joint of Percival’s hip.

“I don’t know the devil,” Percival says, “but that doesn’t mean I…”

He swallows.

“I want both of us to enjoy this,” he says. “I am enjoying it. I want this.”

It surprises him again and again how much he wants this. How much he is even capable of wanting it. He opens his eyes and Credence is there, bent over between his legs. Percival moves all his weight onto one elbow so he can reach out and touch Credence’s horns. Those are real. Credence blinks his blank, brilliant eyes at him.

“I like these,” Percival says.

“I don’t,” Credence says. “But I… I like that you do.”

The tip of his nose gets flattened slightly against Percival’s skin when he kisses the inside of his thigh.

“I’m going to turn over,” Percival says. He can still see Credence over his shoulder, if he needs to. The horns are hard to miss.

“You don’t have —” Credence cuts off when Percival actually rolls onto his stomach. He’s quick about it, pushing up on his knees slightly. When that makes something in his lower back twinge with pain, he kneels higher up.

Credence inhales sharply.

Yes, Percival could turn and look over his shoulder. But his back and neck protest when he tries. It’s just easier to press his face down into the pillow and accept the darkness.

“Oh,” Credence says. “Oh.”

His voice turns into a low, rasping groan that goes right to Percival’s cock.

“I want you,” Credence says. “May I? May I, _please_?”

Percival swallows. Against the cool pillowcase, his face burns. He was worried if he wasn’t looking at Credence, he might mistake him for someone else. But no one has ever sounded like that — desperate and needy and shaken — over Percival, over his asshole, of all things. He’s a forty-something seminary drop-out with a tan line from his shorts, for goodness sake. 

He reaches back with one hand and, in the spirit of an appreciative audience, grabs the curve of his own ass. When Credence touches the backs of his thighs, Percival feels the tremor in his hands. He hears the hitch of Credence’s breathing in the quiet.

“Percival,” he says, “I want to devour you.”

Percival breathes out through his mouth into the pillow. He breathes in through his nose, getting the smell of his shampoo mixed with laundry detergent.

“Well, just don’t bite too hard,” he says. 

“I will be very gentle,” Credence tells him.

Percival can feel his breath, the air that carries those words. 

Credence kisses the back of his hand first. His nose presses to the bones beneath his skin. His mouth is wet and open. His hands move up Percival’s thighs, caressing skin that has rarely been touched. 

Then Credence licks his skin. He licks Percival’s hand and follows his fingers to the cleft his ass. There’s none of the hesitation that Percival expects — the disgust, honestly. Credence groans and runs his long tongue up over Percival’s hole. He kisses him there, as eagerly as any other inch of Percival’s body. 

“Mercy in heaven,” Percival says into the pillow. 

He almost moves away from Credence; he does try to squirm away when the tip of that long tongue presses at his hole. He feels wound up tight. Nervous laughter shakes his chest.

Credence’s fingers dig into his thigh. He keeps pushing with his tongue, keeps kissing. Percival tries to count the laps of Credence’s tongue and quickly loses track. 

A drop of Credence’s saliva runs down between his legs. Percival hears his own breathing grow ragged. Wetness drips from the head of his cock. Credence coaxes him open, until he can actually press his tongue in deep enough for Percival to feel it. Percival feels Credence’s nose press against his tailbone. Credence’s chin digs into the space behind Percival’s balls.

He wants this to go on forever.

But Percival’s cock and back both start to _ache_ from the strain. He gasps for breath when he turns his head. The muscles between his shoulders spasm. He feels the damp of his own spit on the pillowcase against his cheek.

“Credence,” he says. To his own ears, Percival’s voice grates with roughness.

Credence’s hands clutch him. His nose mashed against Percival so hard that Percival wonders how he can possibly breathe.

“Credence,” he says again. “Please.”

Percival doesn’t get a chance for another word. His lower back seizes up hard — a painful jolt that makes his legs slide out from under him. Credence holds tight, but doesn’t try to keep him up. Actually, it may be that Credence helps him down to the bed a little more gently. Credence doesn’t relent. He presses his face against Percival’s ass hard enough to grind Percival’s cock against the bedsheets. HIs groans are half from pain and half from pleasure. 

“Stop, stop,” he manages, eventually, and Credence pulls away so fast it leaves Percival feeling cold and damp.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says. When Percival looks over his shoulder, Credence is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No, no,” Percival says. 

Turning onto his side makes him groan. He’s never been this hard in his life, maybe — this throbbing, aching, desperate feeling. It’s ridiculous. He leans on his shoulder and looks down at his own cock, where clear fluid wells up and drips steady as a faucet even when Credence isn’t touching him. He reaches with his free hand and rubs the head, wetting it. He hisses through his teeth. He can feel his back aching and his hole clenching at nothing. A shiver runs up the muscles of his back.

“I’ll go,” Credence says, “if you wish to dismiss me. This was more than I could have ever imagined from one such as you.”

Percival blinks.

“Don’t go,” he says, and his throat hurts like he’s been shouting. Maybe he has.

“Please,” he says. He reaches out, then realizes his fingertips are still wet with pre-come. He wipes his hand on his thigh and then holds it out to Credence. Percival looks at the hard lines of Credence’s body, as he kneels on the bed, towering over Percival. The lamp throws Credence’s shadow hard against the walls, his elbows and chin standing out as sharply as his horns. Those brilliantly white eyes give Percival no indication of where Credence is looking. But then he slowly tips his face down and Percival can guess.

Credence’s cool hand meets his. Percival pushes his thick fingers in between Credence’s bony knuckles.

“I won’t,” Credence says. “I want to stay here as long as you’ll allow me.”

“This was your house first,” Percival says. Credence’s cheek flinches.

“Come here,” Percival offers. He tugs slightly on Credence’s hand.

Credence leans over him for a moment, bracing one arm on the bed. Percival wants their bodies pressed flush together. He can see that Credence is just as hard as he is, though it suits him better. His dick is just as beautiful as the rest of him, pale with a rosy flush that deepens toward the head. The black tangle of curls that frames it blends into the hair on Credence’s thighs and matches the soft hair along his forearms. It’s not thick hair, but it softens the edges of his wiry limbs, which might be too skinny or too sharply muscular. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Percival says. Credence slides down to the bed and hides at Percival’s back. 

“You still aren’t lying,” Credence says. His arm rests along the line of Percival’s so that their joints fit together. Credence keeps his hand joined with Percival’s until Percival pulls it away. Close together, he can hear the disappointed sound that Credence makes behind his ear.

But he reaches back and gropes for Credence’s skinny thigh — all muscle and bone. 

“I still want you to fuck me,” Percival says. It’s actually a little easier to say without those bright white eyes on him.

“Penetrate me, even,” he adds, and has to bite down on a laugh.

“Oh,” Credence says. 

Percival tries to draw Credence closer, but he’s hard to move until he wants to go. So Percival is forced to move back against Credence instead. The sheet wrinkles up between their bodies, folding up in the space between Credence’s hip bone and the softness at Percival’s back. His skin creases in ways he’s not totally happy about. He leans on his elbow to try to readjust.

“Oh,” Credence says again, the length of his cock finally pressing against Percival. He jerks back for a moment and then wraps his arm hard around Percival’s waist and shoves his whole body against Percival’s back. It’s enough to knock the air out of them both.

“I’m sorry,” Credence murmurs against the back of Percival’s head. His cool skin touches the back of Percival’s thighs. His knees don’t quite fit; one hits the back of Percival’s calf.

“This feels exquisite,” he says. He rubs his face against Percival, his hair and his skin. He kisses the space behind Percival’s ear. Percival worries again that he might have ear hairs he should have trimmed. The thought takes his mind off the all-over ache of need and soreness.

Credence’s arm relaxes and he moves his cool hand over Percival’s belly to his side. Using both hands, he somehow finds the exact muscle that makes Percival wince. Credence presses hard enough, with thumbs and rolling knuckles, to make Percival cry out. Something pops in his back. He moans. Credence’s cock grinds against his ass in the moment after.

“Lube,” Percival says, opening his eyes. He throws his free arm out and half rolls over to try to reach the bedside table. He bought a bottle to help with those early morning moments of self-pleasure. 

Credence follows him, his longer arm reaching past Percival and pulling the drawer open for him.

“I’ve watched you use that,” Credence says, when Percival gets the small bottle out. He makes sure he’s comfortable before he pops open the lid.

“Somehow,” Percival says, “I knew that.”

“You did?” Credence asks.

He eases away from Percival’s back slightly, as though retreating. And Percival lets him, because he needs the space. He slicks two fingers and reaches over his own hip. The angle isn’t great, but it’s better than jamming his arm up against the inside of his thigh and folding his wrist in half to fuck himself. He’s still wet with Credence’s spit.

“I was usually thinking of you,” Percival says. In a way, he thinks, it was all working towards this.

“Oh,” Credence says. His cock brushes against the curve of Percival’s ass.

Percival’s fingers slide in easily, even with the stretch. Everything is perfectly slick. He tries not to think of Credence lingering invisibly in the church, watching Percival jerk off or make breakfast or sort donations in QuickBooks while listening to old swing recordings. He’s not sure if it scares him or something else. It’s just not what he wants to think about right now.

Right now, he just wants to find the way to give himself a little comfort while his cock throbs at every pulse of his heart. Sweat rolls across the creases of Percival’s forehead from his temple.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Credence says. He puts a hand on Percival’s shoulder.

“I knew it was wrong,” he continues, “to look at you when I didn’t want to be seen. I couldn’t let you see me. I was — I’ve been so afraid.”

“Credence,” Percival says.

He wants to tell Credence what Credence has told him: He doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I’ve been afraid too,” he says, instead.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says.

His nose presses against Percival’s neck. He kisses the sweat on Percival’s skin. The wet sound of his lips and tongue match the sound of Percival’s fingers moving in and out of himself.

“Help me with this,” Percival says. “Please, Credence.”

Credence’s fingers grope at the back of his hand. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, Percival.”

The breath catches in Credence’s throat, loud enough for Percival to hear it when his fingers push into Percival. It’s a different sensation. His fingers are dry and the lube has started to get sticky. He’s not as warm as Percival; something about him feels slightly more or slightly less than real.

Percival could pretend this was a very vivid dream if he wanted — again. Instead he pulls his own fingers out and lets himself feel Credence’s touch. He has big hands and bony knuckles. Percival breathes through the width of each one. Credence groans in his ear. His cock brushes against the back of Percival’s thigh. Percival swallows from need or nerves.

“Credence,” he says.

He picks up the lube off the bed with sticky, filthy fingers. He wipes them on the sheets.

“Here,” he says. “Put that on your…” He stops short.

Credence pulls his fingers out too fast and it doesn’t matter that Percival can’t think of the right word because he can’t speak at all for a moment.

“Yes,” Credence says. He takes the lube and Percival hears the snap of the lid opening.

He feels it all in small brushes between his legs and against his ass. Credence’s fist and his wet cock. Credence doesn’t press in right away. He rubs himself against Percival like a tease.

“Tell me what to do,” Credence says.

“Go slow,” Percival tells him. He swallows again.

When Credence finally starts to press his cock into him, Percival breathes in deep through his nose and shuts his eyes tight. The air comes back out of him just as suddenly and shakily. He grabs the sheets on the bed to keep from reaching back and grabbing at Credence. 

It seems to last forever; the discomfort and the sensation that he’d forgotten of being _too_ full. Percival draws in a breath and thinks to tell Credence to stop, but then breathes out and remembers this feels good. Or it will. It can. It might. He wants it to. He feels a lot; too much to sort out. So he grabs at the pillow under his head and just doesn’t think.

Credence wraps an arm around his ribs and pulls their bodies close together. He kisses the back of Percival’s head and buries his statuesque nose deep into the longest pieces of Percival’s hair. He murmurs and pants. Neither of them says anything.

Percival just breathes. He breathes and keeps breathing until Credence’s hips press hard against his ass. 

However long Credence’s tongue might be, his cock feels longer. That’s all Percival can think. He feels lucky. Would it be sacreligious to say he’s been blessed? He never imagined he could be so intimate with anyone ever again.

But Credence holds his whole body against Percival’s while he’s inside him. He breathes into Percival’s hair and Percival can hear the smothered sounds he makes at the back of his throat that he probably doesn’t want to be heard. Credence holds himself like that for so long that Percival loses track of time. He starts to worry about the lube drying out. He thinks, hysterically, that they might get stuck together. 

“You can move,” he says. His voice is unsteady, more air than volume. His hand shakes slightly, rubbing his knuckles against the sheets that are soft from washing.

“Oh, please,” Credence says. “Please.”

But he hardly moves at all. He shivers against Percival’s back and rocks his hips against Percival. Little motions as he squeezes his arm around Percival’s belly. His forearm presses in under Percival ribs. Percival uncurls his fist and feels his joints crack. He touches the fine, dark hair on Credence’s arm, petting it.

“This feels good,” he says, and he realizes that he means it. The discomfort goes away as he relaxes. He gets used to the feeling and then it’s less like — it’s nothing that he doesn’t want, actually. He asked for this. He dreamt about it and rubbed his fist against the head of his cock thinking about it. Now Credence is inside him, deep and unwilling to pull out or away. 

“Percival,” Credence murmurs into the back of his ear. “I never knew. I never did.”

There’s not enough sense in Percival’s head for him to ask. He groans and feels his cock rubbing against wetness spilled on the sheets and down the side of his hip. Credence fucks him slowly and carefully, but deep enough that the pressure of his cock is inescapable. Percival’s thighs go tense. He doesn’t have to touch his aching cock at all. 

“Ah, fuck,” he says. He clenches his jaw one moment and tries to swallow down deep breaths the next. Sparks of red light flash in his eyes from Percival squeezing them shut so tightly.

“Fuck,” he says. “Credence.” 

There’s total silence behind him. The sound of Percival’s pounding heart rings in his ears louder than Credence’s smothered panting. He doesn’t even make those swallowed little noises as Percival comes.

Percival opens his mouth and groans, but his orgasm doesn’t end as easily as that. It comes in waves with the thrusts of Credence’s cock. Credence’s leg falls over his and holds him down against the bed. The arm around his waist feels solid as steel, hard enough to bruise if he pushed against it. Behind him, against him, around him, Credence starts to shake. 

The sound of Credence’s hitching breath rings in Percival’s ears. 

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t ask, but Credence stops moving his hips right when Percival’s cock starts to go soft. Not that he’s used to staying that hard when he’s being fucked. He’s not even sure he liked being so turned on the whole time. It can be nice just to grab his dick while something moves inside him. But Credence’s touch is almost electrifying. His cock twitches from over sensitivity at the thought of Percival wiping it off with even a tissue.

With the horns and eyes out of view, Percival still can’t escape the preternatural sense of Credence’s power. He closes his eyes, feeling both drained and filled.

He ought to tell Credence to pull out. He should try to arrange their bodies a little more comfortably. He could at least pull the blanket over them. He could let Credence know he enjoyed it. He doesn’t do anything but let his breathing even out.

“Thank you,” Credence murmurs eventually. The arch of his foot rubs against Percival’s leg.

“I wish that I could love you.”

Maybe Percival just dreams those words. He certainly dreams of Credence, more vividly than ever before.

Credence presses him down onto the bed and kisses him. The sheets sprout into the grass of the hill behind his high school where he first kissed another boy — before they got into a fight about it. Credence kisses him deeply enough to choke the breath out of Percival’s throat with his tongue. He sucks something wet out of Percival’s mouth. Percival hears the sound of it moving between their lips.

He opens his eyes. 

Credence pulls away and pearly fluid drips from his red lips. The skin of his face above his prominent cheekbones is as dark as his hair, which hangs in damp curls to his shoulders. His horns shine with wetness, looking a shade short of black instead of greyish brown. Credence opens his three eyes, all bright as moons. The third balances out his tall forehead, Percival thinks, especially as the darkness blends into his hair. His skin flushes to red down his cheeks and chin. His throat and chest are flushed red with blood, but his hands and lower body are dark. Percival can see cracks of red like veins disappearing into skin the color of ashes and coal.

Credence caresses Percival’s face for a moment and then lifts his hands. He spits into the cup of his palms. His long tongue lolls out of a mouth that splits his sharp face in half. He seems to have ten times as many teeth at Percival remembered.

“You’re still beautiful,” Percival says. He reaches up to brush the dark, damp hair away from the eye at the center of Credence’s forehead. He tucks a few locks behind Credence’s ear.

Credence presses his lips together when he smiles so that Percival won’t see his teeth.

“Thank you,” Credence says.

“Is this a dream?” Percival asks. The grass pokes at his scalp. Above Credence’s shoulders, the sun hangs summer hot and burns bright enough to make Percival squint.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Just checking,” Percival says.

“I’m meant to corrupt souls and sow wickedness into the hearts of men,” Credence says. “I must feed on their dissolution.”

“Alright,” Percival says. “I can accept that, I suppose. The horns are a bit of a giveaway.”

“Percival,” Credence says, in a tone that suggests he doesn’t at all appreciate Percival’s attempt at humor.

“I mean it,” he says. He bites the inside of his cheeks and draws his brows together. It’s hard to be serious with a demon sitting on his naked lap. “If you’ve come to collect my soul for damnation, then have it.”

All three eyes blink down at him.

“You can’t do that,” Credence says. 

“Why not?” Percival asks. “It’s my soul to do what I wish with.”

“But,” Credence says. He stops and makes a hard little pout. His red mouth makes an angry shape that Percival ought to find scary. After all, there are a lot of teeth in this version of that mouth. But it’s still so good to kiss. Plus, Credence still has two hands full of something that might be Percival’s soul or else his semen. Maybe it’s Credence’s?

“A soul has value,” Credence says. “I have to earn it. Or —” He pauses. “You could bargain something for it.”

He leans over Percival and the liquid cupped in his palms threatens to spill between his fingers.

“What do you desire?” Credence asks him in a whisper. “Percival?”

Because this is a dream, the first thing that leaps into Percival’s imagination comes out of his mouth at Credence’s bidding.

“Might I trade my soul for yours?” he asks.

“What?” Credence asks, rearing back.

Percival pushes up on his elbows in the grass. His back doesn’t hurt like it should. He feels younger. He wonders how he looks, but Credence’s bright eyes offer no reflection.

“Salvation is always possible,” Percival says. Perhaps that’s the wrong word, because Credence falls backwards right off of Percival’s lap. 

“Forgiveness,” he tries instead. “Freedom?”

Credence’s cupped hands part and whatever he held spills onto the green, green grass. 

“You don’t deserve another hundred years of haunting some Lower Manhattan lot,” Percival insists.

“Stop!” Credence cries out. His eyes are all wide open; his broad jaw is clenched tight.

“Now, now,” a familiar voice says. “Always so sanctimonious, aren’t you? Ever so saintly for a common sodomite.”

Credence flinches and draws his hands up in front of him. Percival sees the way his ribs stick out and the red amongst the coal-blackness of his body rises like scars more than veins. He looks burned, Percival realizes — charred.

Percival squints into the sunlight behind Credence, but he only sees a shadow of something that could be a man. His imagination fills in all the blanks that Percival wishes it wouldn’t.

“You can’t really think you’re a good man, Percival,” the devil says. “Not after everything you’ve done.”

“Could you shut up?” Seraphina asks.

Percival scrambles to his feet. He covers his cock with one hand and cups his balls in the other. He turns to look at her. Her dark eyes seem to blaze like gold. Her Audemar shines on her left wrist. She clutches a sword in her right hand as casually as she might a cup of coffee. Her Chanel suit and Marc Jacobs pumps are both grey, but behind her stretch six wings with feathers of every color. 

“I mean, really,” she says. “What do you expect to gain from these trials? You’re not going to win.”

“I’ve won before,” the devil says. No, he shouts, and it’s with a voice that Percival doesn’t know. He turns and the soft grass turns into a creaking wooden floor. He hears the crackle of fire and he no longer recognizes the shape of the man framed by it.

“I’ll win again!” the devil yells over the roaring flames.

Smoke starts to fill the room, and Percival realizes they are in a very small room. Seraphina’s sword slices through the rafters, seeking the shadow of the devil. She dives into the flames. Her feathers ignite.

Percival looks around. He’s wearing a suit he doesn’t recognize with white lapels layered over black. His coat is as long and somber as a cassock. It catches around his calves as he tries to move.

With his hair shorn, Percival would hardly recognize Credence. It’s barely long enough to curl and cut right to the scalp around his ears. But the nose is right, Percival thinks, and the slope of his shoulders. Smoke makes Percival weep and cough. He tries to reach Credence and Credence yanks his hands away. His whole body moves like he’d rather shove himself through splintering wood and hot embers than be touched by Percival.

“Credence!” he says, throat raw from the heat.

Through the tongues of the fire, Credence looks up at him. Percival can see the whites all around his dark irises. The wood beams holding the room together groan. Something crashes behind Percival. It might be some imagined battle between good and evil, but Percival can’t look away from the young man that Credence might have been.

It’s like seeing a ghost.

Then the smoke closes in like suffocating darkness. Percival wakes up coughing. Credence’s arm holds him under his ribs. The lamp still lights the room, but now the sun has risen. Two sets of shadows cut across the ceiling and walls of Percival’s bedroom.

“Shit,” Percival wheezes. He tries to move and Credence pulls him back. Their bodies are pressed too close together and Percival feels the hair on the inside of his thighs pull when he tries to stretch. He's filthy with more things than he wants to think about, sticky and worse. 

“I'm late,” he says, before he remembers that it's Saturday.

He doesn’t fall back to sleep, then, but he can at least relax. Credence wakes slowly — a sigh followed by the stretch of his arm over Percival’s ribs. His chin brushes the bare skin at the nape of Percival’s neck when he yawns.

Then he jolts back. Percival feels every inch of his skin where sweat and lube and god knows what else has stuck them together. He feels terribly embarrassed and more than a little disgusting. He imagines that, though he may not be fully human, Credence may feel the same. So he tries to roll over while Credence tries to scramble out of his bed. Percival watches him stumble on his very long, pale legs. The sheets are caught around Credence’s left calf.

“Good morning,” he says. “Would you like to use the shower first? I’m going to have some coffee.”

Credence unwinds the blanket with both hands. There is a pinkish mark on his cheek from the folds in the pillowcase. Some of his long hair is caught in the corner of his lips. He blinks his bright white eyes at Percival before gently setting both feet on the floor. When he stands, he slouches slightly and tucks his broad chin downward as though it might hide the broadness of his jaw or the width of his neck. His shoulders slope and the skin on his toned stomach creases under his ribs.

Percival sits up and moves his whole head to look Credence up and down, just to make sure the young man knows he’s doing it.

“Well,” he says. “It’s a good morning indeed.”

By the time Percival is swinging his own feet over the side of the bed, Credence manages to say, “Thank you.”

“Do you want me to show you how to use the shower?” Percival asks. 

Credence nods. Percival pulls on a pair of plain white boxers that stick to his skin in ways he regrets. He gets the hot water going and leaves Credence to it. 

The back of Percival’s throat feels like a desert and there’s a slimy feeling to his teeth when he runs his tongue across them. He can’t quite breathe through his nose. Did he snore? Does he usually snore? Maybe Credence is used to it. He pours coffee from the automatic drip and leans against the counter as he drinks it.

He expected to be aching, but he’s not.

When he’s finished his cup of coffee, Percival rinses it out and leaves it upside down on the rack beside the sink. He goes upstairs and hears the shower still running. He picks out a shirt and slacks to wear for the day, then has an idea.

The sweater that Percival picks out was a gift from Seraphina that he never wears, but it’s got a wide neck. The slacks are a little long — he keeps forgetting to get them tailored. The sunglasses and hat were buried in a box under the bed. Percival has to kneel on the floor in his boxers to get them.

Credence steps out of the bathroom holding one of Percival’s towels in front of him. His hair drips onto his shoulders.

“Do you have a comb I can use?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” Percival tells him. His shoulder brushes against Credence’s arm when he steps around him and into the steamy bathroom. He offers Credence a toothbrush as well.

“The clothes on the bed are for you,” Percival says. “If you want to try them.”

He showers quickly, washing off the dried lube that goes slimy under the warm water. The heater gives out halfway through, but Percival can’t even care. He scrubs the sweat and semen out of the hair around his flaccid cock and between his buttocks. It feels good to let the cool water run down his back and ass.

The shock of cold helps wake him up, he thinks.

He dries off in the bathroom and brushes the coffee and sleep taste out of his mouth. Then, because Credence is outside the bathroom door, Percival takes the time to apply beard oil and pomade. 

Credence sits on the bed in Percival’s brick red sweater. The wide-brimmed black hat hides his horns, though it sits high on his head. The sunglasses balance out his face slightly. His hands rest on either side of his knees in fists.

“I was thinking we could go across the street for coffee and breakfast,” Percival says.

“I don’t need to eat,” Credence says.

“Yes, but I do,” Percival says. “And how long has it been since you went anywhere fun?”

A little line appears in Credence’s forehead above the bridge of his beautiful nose. The sunglasses are very flattering, actually.

“If you don’t like it,” he offers, “we’re just across the street.”

Credence grabs Percival by the wrist after he’s dressed.

“I accept your invitation,” he says, voice tight.

“Do you?” Percival asks.

Credence’s fingers squeeze him. “Yes.” The muscles of his jaw flex and relax. Credence’s mouth softens slightly.

“It’s a date, then,” Percival says. He smiles at Credence, but Credence bows his head so his hat hides more of him.

Percival slips his hand into Credence’s and rubs his thumb over two of Credence’s knuckles. He has lovely hands and Percival idly thinks about how those hands feel against his bare skin. They go downstairs together and Percival stops them at the bottom of the stairs, where drywall and a door have gone up to close off the office from Percival’s living area. He reaches out and brushes his fingers against the underside of Credence’s wide chin. Credence tilts his face up.

Carefully, Percival ducks under the brim of Credence’s borrowed hat. The felt has worn out slightly.

“May I kiss you?” Percival asks.

Credence presses his mouth hard against Percival’s. It’s startling and pins Percival’s upper lip against his teeth. Credence’s nose hits him in the cheek. When they pull apart, Credence’s hat is knocked slightly askew and Percival can’t help laughing.

“Thank you,” he says. 

They walk to the corner to cross, then down the sidewalk. Credence clutches Percival’s hand so tight that his fingers start to go numb as Percival opens the café door with his free hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Graves!” Queenie says.

“Lookin’ good,” Jacob says. “Congrats on opening the place.”

“Thank you,” Percival says.

“Who’s your friend?” Jacob asks, after Percival puts in an order for four pączki and a house coffee.

“This is Credence,” Percival says. He lifts Credence’s hand in his slightly.

Credence’s chin lifts slightly. “Hello.”

Queenie turns so quickly her elbow knocks over a container full spoons. She scrambles forward and catches them all with both hands. Jacob is there to catch her.

“Careful, darling,” he says.

Normally, she would laugh and look at Jacob. She would thank him and get primly back to her feet. Instead, she stares up at Percival while Jacob holds her shoulders.

“I’ll be right back,” she says. “Just a minute.”

Credence steps back slightly and tries to tuck himself in behind Percival’s shoulder. Percival squeezes his fingers around Credence’s hand.

“She’s getting the pączki,” Jacob says, before he gives Percival his change. “Sorry about all that.”

“It’s fine,” Percival says. He stands there for a minute or more wiggling a five dollar bill free from his money clip without letting go of Credence’s hand. He stuffs the bill into the tip jar and then picks up his money clip from the counter.

A line of three customers has formed behind them. Percival ignores them as he leads Credence to his favorite seat.

The coffee and pączki take longer than usual to arrive — longer than they ever have. But Credence does not seem to notice and Percival does not wish to alarm him. He keeps turning halfway around in his seat to stare out the window, then silently twisting back to stare at Percival. Percival wiggles his fingers in between Credence’s and feels pins and needles.

Tina Goldstein walks up clutching a serving tray in both hands, the way her sister would never. Her blouse falls short of her wrists. 

“Oh my God,” she says.

The plate and cup rattle when her hands start to shake, so Percival lets go of Credence’s hand to grab the tray before she has a chance to drop it.

“Credence,” she says.

“Hello,” he says.

“It’s me,” Tina says. “Tina.”

Credence lifts his hand to his sunglasses and lowers them just enough that Tina, and only Tina, might see his eyes. Her own eyes go wide. Her empty hands come up to cover her mouth.

She grabs a heavy, upholstered armchair and swings it around to their table like it’s nothing.

“Credence,” she says. “It’s _so_ good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Credence says. “I’ve missed you.”

“Really?” Tina asks.

Percival picks up the coffee and moves the plate of pastries between Tina and Credence. Tina reaches for one without looking at it. She can’t take her eyes off of Credence’s face, which Percival finds reasonable. He pulls his phone out of his pocket as Tina and Credence stumble their way into conversation. 

“When you have some free time,” Percival types out in a message to Seraphina, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have tumblr jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com and twitter @jffgldblm90s


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